The Pink Cocktail.

“Men don’t know how to be men anymore.”

Adult manhood has become an amorphous ideal that has new rules introduced at every right turn. There’s the modern hipster man, the modern bro, the modern thug, the modern vintage fetishist, the modern metrosexual, the modern man with swag, all types of masculine paradigms that all vie for legitimacy in the eyes of their most valued audience: women (or other men, I’m not judging).

Still, the universal trait between all these new genres of male is that there is minimal overlap between male and female gender image. Any self-conscious man, whether he walks Haight Street, Wall Street, Beach Boulevard or Nostrand Avenue, will never walk in sheepskin Uggs. The average man, whether he listens to Explosions in the Sky or cracks a beer for explosions in the sky, will never wear foundation to hide their facial imperfection.

Well I’m here to take a blowtorch to that ideal. I think that any man, be they of skinny jeans or cuff links, should be confident in the things that make him a person.  I think the underlying seal of authenticity in any male paradigm is the confidence a man conveys. If a man would rather walk in comfort in calf-high sheepskin boots, then fuck it, let him. I would argue he’s a bigger man than his peers, because he’s doing what he wants to do, and I think that’s one of the few tangible ways to gauge a  male’s worth as a “man”.

Hell, I’ll take it a step further, most men are hiding a “Pink Cocktail” under their jackets. Some men even have two. Gay men can incorporate any amount of “Pink Cocktails” into their public persona with relative acceptance.

Sidenote: Relative being the skeleton keyword.

A “Pink Cocktail” is, for a lack of better expression, a preference for things that would normally fall under the feminine half of gender expectations. It’s born out of the male expectation to drink stiff-flavored alcohol with little to no additives. I know plenty of dudes who would love to drink some spiked fruit punch if they weren’t going to be called gay slurs all night.

Sidenote: This metaphor is null on Hawaii. I would say Hawaii is one of the few places on Earth where any man can drink loud-colored cocktails with fruit without getting asked if his vagina was cramping.

Most modern men keep a guilty pleasure for themselves, usually hiding it from plain sight of their friends and co-workers in fear of being insulted. Still, you like what you like, and men shouldn’t have to apologize for what they like. My “Pink Cocktail” is musicals. I’m a sucker for well made show tunes and a gay time at the theater. I was one of the few boyfriends in the audience of “Wicked” that actually wanted to be there.

What I’m saying is that men shouldn’t have to hide their “Pink Cocktails”. There’s more masculinity to be found in security and confidence in their personality instead of trying to pidgeonhole themselves into whatever male paradigm is out there nowadays. I mean, what did those shaggy haired peaceniks fight for in the 60s? Not just the end to war and free sex and drugs, but also the right to express whatever the fuck it is they want.

I’ll close with this example. A very good straight friend of mine, known to be an aficionado for female pop singers like Mandy Moore and Hilary Duff, was getting gas one day. He was smiling and crooning along to Mandy Moore like he was in church singing the gospel. A group of young’ns came along and started laughing at him, shouting at him, calling him a gay, etc. The smile dropped, and my friend went to the group of youths and promptly clocked one of them in the jaw. The young man crumpled into a heap, and my friend stared the rest of them down, asking them in a deep, booming, voice:

“WHO ELSE GOT A FUCKIN’ PROBLEM WITH MANDY MOORE?”

The gang of youths offered no challenge and promptly retreated, and my friend went back to enjoying his Mandy Moore while the rest of the gas station refused to look at him.

The moral is: There shouldn’t be anything emasculating about liking Mandy Moore, but there is definitely something emasculating about getting your ass kicked for running your mouth.

2012
05/07
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The Creative Process.

“Creative people can’t help but be creative. They’re always creating something.”

Fuck you asshole. Apparently you never get writer’s block, the common cold, or the runs from Orange Sauce.

–

I don’t know about you, but my creativity is kind of a scumbag. It’s the type of scumbag that will text you that they’re at Bar A when you clearly told them to meet you at Cafe B. Then on your way to Bar A, you’ll get another text saying they’re at Club C. When you arrive at Club C, the line is impenetrably long and there’s fifteen minutes until last call.

It’s not that my creativity means to give me the run-around, it’s just that it has ADHD and can’t seem to focus on anything.

Unless it’s boobs. My creativity can run long when it comes to boobs.

Sidenote: I’m totally talking about my creativity. It’s not what you think. I can explain baby. Please don’t throw me out of the house.

–

Because of this flaky mental engine of mine, I usually end up staring at a white computer screen with a blinking cursor, trying to think of something clever. It almost taunts me the way it strobes on my screen, like a middle finger daring me to put words on the page.

Then I get some genius idea, as all ideas are when they are first conceived. I love this idea, I nurture it, I take it home and wrap it in blankets, I sing it songs to let it mature.

Suddenly this idea is spewing forth sentences and words that just fit together. I can taste the cereal and milk in my mouth as the nebula spouts forth a shining, bright star. I see this idea grow into a story, in front of my very eyes, watching the result of my hands in raising something that I created. After I tire out this idea, I go to sleep thinking that I may finally leave this world a better place with my words.

When I wake up and come back to the computer screen with stale oxygen in anticipating lungs, I see none of the luminescence of the night prior. Rather, I see a landscape of chewed up carpet, shit stains on the walls, the smell of urination creeping into my slowly-loading brain.

This idea, instead of ushering in the opening sentences to the next Great American Novel, has spewed out its bodily fluids in a shotgun manner, all across my word processor.

Undeterred, I swab up the pools of filth with a drag of my cursor, the blue highlights a harbinger of culling the disjointed, disfigured creation. I continue to rear this idea, I feed it words of encouragement from Coleridge and Murakami, I sing it songs of the most fresh melodies from Nujabes and Emancipator.

The idea, reluctant and insecure from realizing its own fallacies in the morning, spits out jagged prose that I can immediately identify as stunted, constipated phrases and cliches. Some have been ripped entirely from my favorite TV shows.

“And then Peter said, ‘Damn. DAMN. DAAAAMN. JAMES……..that was from Good Times…’ He lay on his knees, an expression easily mistaken for mock despair, and bellowed out another, anguished ‘MAMA NO!’ “

Again, I sleep, but with less reassurance.

As the weeks pass, the idea refuses to gift me with words. It instead has grown into a hormonal beast, a hoodlum that wears clothes two sizes too big, a thug who only requests money for its burgeoning appetite for collegiate lager, a whining brat who only repeats hip-hop lyrics as a rebuttal for my imploring.

“Fuck you. Pay me you bunk ass ni-”

It is at this time I kick the idea out of my head, with an unceremonious “fuck this shit” and return to my required duties of cover letter writing and resume polishing.

As soon as I begin re-entering a Loop address for an e-commerce firm located in Downtown Chicago, another idea creeps into my head. Still, with scars in my heart from the disappointment of my last progeny, I solemnly smother it with the soothing basslines of Vinnie Paz and continue tweaking my professional experience.

“With the Jake, I’ll never cooperate.
I’ll fuckin’ violate your God for sakes.
I’ll scar your face, Alla-hu Akbar, God is Great.”

Moral of the Story: Fuck writer’s block.

2012
03/26
CATEGORY
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Team of Destiny.

Eli Manning. Eternal younger brother. Goofiest QB with 2 rings. Manchild of Manhattan. Agent of Destiny.

I spent the Super Bowl weekend in New York, among a bunch of fans of the team that had just inched by my own two weeks prior, in a gaudy blue-draped bar that called an immediate conflict to my red preferences, while being 3,000+ miles away from a Super Bowl kickback in an apartment I would much rather be at.

San Francisco (and San Jose, to an extent) belongs to the 49ers. You might think different if you’ve seen scenes from the Giants’ World Series win a couple years ago. When the SF Giants won the World Series, the entire city erupted in a fervor but it was only because A. The SF Giants hadn’t won a World Series since moving from New York, and B. The Niners haven’t won the Super Bowl in 2 decades (and counting). San Francisco hadn’t celebrated a champion in 2 decades, and this was after a period when having ticker-tape parades down Market was an entitlement. It was the 49ers that put San Francisco on the sporting map, and for that, this city will always prioritize red and gold over black and orange.

So after seeing the incompetency at Candlestick for the better part of the 2000s, I’d sound spoiled and unreasonable if I were to say that I was disappointed in this year’s season. Obviously, this is based on the assumption that we’ll do even better next season, which is no guarantee. There’s an inkling inside of me that says our success this season is not sustainable; there’s no way we can be that lucky with turnovers, there’s no way our defense will continue to stymie teams, and there’s no way Alex Smith won’t eventually tap into his reserves of goofy play and start throwing 4 picks a game.

But back to that New York bar, I found myself rooting for the team that had just squeaked by mine. It wasn’t just an instinct of self-preservation, it was a genuine vested interest in seeing Big Blue raise the trophy. I figured that if my team was going to lose to anybody, it would be to a team of destiny. A team that was on such a hot streak that could you could cook sausages over it in the parking lot. A team that manages to tape over its frailties and still find a way to win. A team that’s matched up against a favored behemoth headed by the Antichrist and the Most Luckiest Man Alive. If my Niners were going to lose to anybody, it better be against a group of players who were backed by God, Allah, the fucking constellations, or Tim Tebow’s pose.

And the Super Bowl proved me right. The NY Giants were this year’s team of destiny (destiny…estiny…stiny…tiny)

How can a team dodge the impact of two fumbles? How did Wes Welker come up short in a moment he usually shines in? How did Tom Brady get a safety? How did Rob Gronkowski not come up with that last-second Hail Mary? How does one of the greatest quarterbacks of our time fail to win against an obviously flawed defense? How does the eternal little brother find a way to win against the poster boys of the NFL? How did our eventual Super Bowl champions even make the fucking playoffs with a 9-7 record in the NFC East?

You can feed me a football research report detailing the intricacies and logically thought out points of how/why the Giants won the Lombardi. But I’m sticking with destiny. It makes me feel better. It also prevents me from taking a shotgun to Kyle Williams’ knee.

2012
02/08
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Dohstradamus.

“I can’t predict the fucking future.”

That’s one of my favorite lines, settling at No. 4 in between “get up on dat shawty!” and “Jameson on the rocks”. It’s a line that removes any responsibility from any drunken, Bernie Mac-ish, sometimes unsolicited piece of advice that you chuck at your friend’s forehead. It’s easy to use, as seen below:

Me: Yo wattup maaaaaaaaaaaaaayne. Shit. Sheeeeit. Looks like that guy is starin’ atchoo hella haurrrd.
Friend: Yea man. Looks like he’s staring. He might wanna fight.
Me: Mothafuckin…go up mothafucka and like…mothafuckin shit…y’know…be like “yo mothafucka” and like…shit…talk to him like a mothafuckin man, fuck is wrong witch-*BURP*
Friend: I dunno man, what if he just socks me?
Me: Mothafucka..I can’t predict the fuckin’ future…just..*BURP*..mothafuckin shit….Imma be outside.

“I can’t predict the fuckin’ future” also says volumes about my play-it-safe nature. I’m not one to take risks. Even when the risk becomes compulsory, I drag my feet because I’m deathly afraid of landing wrong. Some of you may have witnessed this firsthand, when I complain about not getting any play, and then refuse to approach any stranger at the bar.

But this is a different year, and I made a promise to be a different person. I made this promise to a lot of friends, and I specifically laid it out to the people who can (and will) kick my ass if I break it. In such a spirit, I decided to do some projections on what might happen in 2012 Anno Domini.

–

1. I will get shredded (or slightly ripped, or…you know, just be presentable.) bro!

I’ve used up the joke. It’s deflated and flat and devoid of any of its previous bounce. It’s no longer funny and it kind of makes me feel dead inside to say it. So I’m putting this to rest. No longer will I refer to myself as having a “lowercase b” figure.

To commemorate this, I’m going to shadow my friend Zyno and figure out the secrets of getting shredded. By next year, or the end of the world, whichever comes first, it is my hope that the following will happen: This stomach will look flat, these arms will look toned, this face will get its chin back, and this man will stop feeling winded after playing a full court game of basketball.

Also, as a corollary to this projection, “Get shredded bro” will be the next catchphrase of 2012. It will apply to anything from working out to getting hammered. It will replace “going hard” and “gettin’ crunk” and hopefully, “SWAG!”. You will hear annoying white boys use it as they down a shot of Wild Turkey. The woman’s version will be “lose some weight bitch!”, which will always accompany a clinking of glasses filled with Skinny Girl.

Take that to the bank, Senator Trent. The blood bank.

–

2. The economy will still suck, but people will stop using it as an excuse.

We’re reaching a point of no return that will spur a lot of us into action. The few jobs that are out there will only go to the people who will grab them by the throat, put some baby powder on their free hand, backhand the shit out of that job, and make it cry and give you money for the phone bill.

Sidenote: Contrary to how effortless it looks on rap music videos, I’ve heard that pimpin’ is indeed not easy.

The economy has been on a downswing for almost four years (maybe longer according to your count). While I appreciate people trying to empathize with my unemployment by saying that “times are tough”, I wish people would remember that times have been tough. The times aren’t going to grant any of us any favors.

I think people are starting to realize that. I still see a lot of the entrepreneurial spirit that makes America what it is, and seeing people make it in unorthodox ways gives me hope. Seeing different trends like food trucks, mobile apps, social music marketing, Twitter, and all types of technology appearing is a sign that people are still hustling, still making things happen despite the times.

And that’s exactly the type of spirit we’ll need to swing the pendulum back our way.

–

3. Dubstep will “die”, but its carcass will be picked apart for decades to come.

Dubstep has grown on me. After seeing the Academy of Villains at this year’s SF Kollaboration softened up my opinions on dubstep music. I used to liken it to Optimus Prime fucking a toaster, but now I see it as a legitimate crafting of sonic landscapes using…well fuck if I know, but using some type of Pro Tools magic.

Still, music moves at the speed of thought, and it’s very rare to see a new genre of music solidify from the initial trend it sprouted from. I don’t see dubstep as a new genre of music, but I do think we’ll see elements of dubstep in all types of future music. Dubstep won’t “die” in the sense that it will completely disappear, I know plenty of genuine fans that will keep the flame going by itself. However, I do think that it will disappear from the public consciousness, only reappearing in cameo snippets of some new type of electronic music trend.

After all, hyphy been dead for years now, but people are still cannibalizing that carcass. Tell me “Rack City” don’t have that Bay sound, and I’ll break it down for you like a Mossberg.

–

4. Tim Tebow will win the Superbowl XLIX while going 1-15, rushing on 29 carries for a 115 yards and 2 touchdowns.

I’ve become a Tebow convert. I used to hate his in-your-face Christianity, his out-from-left-field throwing mechanics, his aggravating pose, his need to thank God in each and every press conference, his alma mater, damn near everything. I hated him and I hoped that he would never come within touching distance of a Lombardi trophy.

But like people are saying, all the man does is win. I can’t think of a quarterback who’s been so mechanically limited with such a good win-loss column.

While Tom Brady and the New England Patriots damn near crucified the Denver Broncos, I’m going to go on a limb and say that Tim Tebow will eventually win the Super Bowl. If this is the year of the crucifixion, then give it three more seasons until Tebow comes back and throws Easter Eggs onto all the haters’ faces.

Also, as a corollary, The 49ers will win this year’s Super Bowl as the following happens: Tom Brady will get stuffed with six sacks, Alex Smith will throw the game winning TD to Kyle Williams, Mike Iupati will rip off Vince Wilfork’s arm and start eating it, Patrick Willis will quietly let Tom Brady know in his polite Southern accent that Brady is his bitch, and Aldon Smith will appear in a surprise performance of Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” during the halftime show, which will also feature Jay-Z slapping Nicki Minaj and starting a rap war between Def Jam and Young Money.

Also, as another corollary, I’m currently knocking on my wooden desk. Because the Niners’ playoff run is too sacred to joke around about. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m an idiot.

–

5. One of my friends will “make it”.

And by “make it”, I mean the marriage of the definition I had back then and the definition I’ve arrived at now.

Back then, “making it” confined of having enough affluence and influence to house all of the homies in a mansion, providing all the homies with enough capital to pursue their passions, to open up the wider world and let the homies see things they wouldn’t normally see living life in a Santa Clara parking lot. If I were to “make it”, it would be my responsibility to make it for everyone else.

Now, “making it” has a mutated, evolved feel. I’m sure some of us still aim for that absolute peak so that they can provide for all of our friends. But it’s different for some of us now. Some of us just want to live comfortably, pay the bill when their name is called, have a few good times, and see everyone else on the same level of financial stability. That would be “making it” for some of my friends. To me, “making it” just means that I’m living on my own two feet, in a place that I’m responsible for, working at a job that I somewhat enjoy, and doing the things that I love to do. “Making it” is no longer about our friends, it’s about what we want to achieve for ourselves.

When I say a “marriage” of what making it meant then and what making it means now, I think that one of us will achieve the goals that they’ve set out for themselves for 2012. They’ll enjoy so much success in their goals, they’ll have some excess time, effort, talent, and/or capital to start helping out their friends achieve what they want for themselves in 2012, in whatever way they can.

–

It is my hope that some of these, if not all, will come to pass. I might not be able to tell the fuckin’ future, but I’ve sensed enough of a disturbance in the Force to tell you that big changes are afoot. Big enough changes to know that 2012 won’t just be another passing blur spent in bars, clubs, cafes, cubicles, and in strangers’ beds. It’s a year for life changing chapters, big ambitions, and ridiculous premonitions.

Because if you don’t do it this year, we’re all gonna fucking die and your last thoughts on this Earth will have been “Fuck. I should’ve put $20 on the Broncos going to the Super Bowl”.

2012
01/16
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2012.

This one’s a preacher. Just letting you know.

–

Let’s say that they’re right. The Mayans that is, with their uncanny ability to translate ambiguous statements into ominously accurate premonitions. What if the world is due to end in 2012? What if the earth rends, the sky falls, plagues break, governments oppress, and all life as we know will be irreversibly fucked?

I mean, not in that pussy Y2K way where somehow, double-digit years would wipe clean your financial history. I’m talking about zombie uprisings, whirlpools in Lake Superior, blizzards in LA, flash floods in Vegas, and the Occupy movement having an actual effect on world governance and distribution of resources…all types of apocalyptic, pigs-fly-out-my-ass situations.

It’s a good thing to joke about, and in all likeliness is not bound to happen. People have been predicting the end of the world since they realized it’s a foolproof way to get some attention. Still, what if this particular premonition ends up being true? What if on a fair day in 2012, everything goes to shit?

Well there’s the popular answers. Such as..

  1. Find yourself an end-of-the-world fuck. After all, if the shit is going to go down, you might as well go down with/on him/her.
  2. Tell a loved one that you really, really love them. Like your parents, your siblings, your road dawgs, your main bitches, or your unrequited love that keeps you in the friend zone.
  3. Commit a crime. Vandalize shit. Fuck shit up. Steal something you couldn’t have gotten otherwise. Like an iPad, or a Dolce and Gabbana handbag, or a bottle of Louis XIII. I personally want to know how tycoons feel when they get crunk.
  4. Go to confession, or convert to some type of religion. Or, hedge your bets and subscribe to them all. Who knows, maybe 1/16th of your faithless, unloyal, cheatin’-ass soul might catch some pity with one of those supreme, celestial deities.

I’m not going to bash you if you decide to do any of these four, or a combination of these four. It’s totally understandable. I’d probably do any one of those four things in my current state of life. I know it’s out of some subconscious fear that I will have left something behind when the world explodes. It’s something that many people will never get out of their head. There’s always something more.

I guess my 2011 resolutions are just part of an ongoing trial to attain that perfect, nirvana-like existence in life. Where I’ve perfected the routine, the algorithms, the environment, the connections, everything. So much so, that if the shit went down, I’d probably go about my day and just wait for some meteor to slap me upside the head. I want to reach a point in life where I know I haven’t left anything behind in the table.  There’s not many masters of life, if at all. Even if there were, we’d never hear from them. We wouldn’t even notice them if the shit went down, because they’d be going about their day without a care in the world.

This is not some piece to bang in some twisted moral that you should live life to the fullest at all possible times. Let me take the hatchet to that bullshit moral, because life is a lot like whiskey. It’s good to take it in often. It’s not always a bad thing to take it in copious amounts. It’s best taken in with good company. But, you take in too much, you fuck up your organs, and then you die with a hideous corpse that can’t stop shitting itself. Because that’s what corpses do. They shit themselves. Look it up.

I don’t think the point in life is to live it like every day is your last. The point in life is to reach a state of contentment and satisfaction where you don’t care if today is your last.

Like anything else in life, there’s no universal formula for all humans to reach this point of satisfaction. We all have different desires and needs, and I’m not going to tell you to call your mom more (although you should…unless she’s a hag of a mother), I’m not going to tell you to get the perfect body (although there is no shame in getting shredded bro), I’m not going to say that you should start a bucket list and cross off events and things on a weekly basis.

I am going to say that trying to reach that nirvana is going to be hard, it’s going to require a lot of thought, and it’s going to require a lot of trial and error. Reshuffling priorities, developing what you really want out of life, maintaining the connections you want to maintain, living life to the few unshakable morals that your conscience can hold, etcetera, etcetera. This nirvana I propose to exist, it’s an amorphous, jiggly, airy cloud of a place with no real road map on how to get there.

But you know how the saying goes, nothing of actual worth is free. Unless it’s free samples from Costco.

I think the point of New Years resolutions is to try to better our lives to attain this point of nirvana, where our lives can be lived with the utmost satisfaction. But thanks to things like lack of discipline, apathy, and base temptations that abandon us when we realize how stupid they are, those resolutions usually find themselves in sewage drains with shit stains on them after January 13th.

All I’m preaching to you (well…myself, mostly), is that a little bit of focus and dedication to reaching that point in life, the point where I couldn’t care less if the world was ending tomorrow, is the goal from which all goals should spawn from.

2012
01/02
CATEGORY
Philosophical Musings
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Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal.

And a happy new year. (Bitch.)

–

I can track when Christmas lost its luster for me. It was when I was around 12 and I realized that I was too old to get awesome stuff for Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, my parents didn’t suddenly decide to blood their 12-year old youngling to the idea that most people don’t usually get shit for free, even on Christmas. My parents still got me more or less what I wanted, usually a good 2 years after I start  annoying them about it, and I’m thankful and appreciative of that. No, 12-year old me decided that presents were not unequivocally awesome. Free shit was and still is boss, but it was not a reason to shake the slumbering humbug that rumbled in my chest.

You see, for kids, Christmas is for getting free shit and eating something delicious and pined for. For teenagers figuring out their hormones like 12-year old Daniel Joeun Oh, Christmas is beginning to feel like it should be spent cuddling next to someone who gets you hard. For 25-year old Daniel Joeun Oh, Christmas has felt like a reminder that I’m a failure in love and life. How so? By lacking the money to buy loved ones substantial presents, and lacking a particular loved one that I could pork by the Christmas fire.

But it’s not like that this year. I’ve left the pity party to 2010 X-Mas and decided to embrace all that saccharine goodness of artificially-timed happiness.

I found myself humming “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and wondered what the fuck happened to me. There’s nothing in my life that has changed for the better. Still perpetually dry, still living at home, still using your state taxes to pursue pipe dreams elsewhere.

Here’s the thing, even writing that last sentence made me wish someone would scissor-kick me in the face. During this time, what the fuck do I really have to complain about?

I ask myself that everytime I read these depressing, self-centered Christmas entries and rants. I get it, you feel alone on Christmas, you hate to see happiness because it reminds you that you don’t have any, your depression fuels your writing and makes you create hauntingly beautiful prose. I fuckin’ get it.

But seriously, what the fuck do you have to complain about?

It’s Christmas. I finally got it. I finally got what all those annoyingly cheerful assholes on Facebook had understood years ago. It’s fucking Christmas. There’s no rhyme or reason to the happiness, it just exists. Maybe it’s the commercial aspect of Christmas, or the movies convincing us that magic happens during the holidays, or that our families insist on celebrating it as a fucking family. It doesn’t matter, it’s free happiness. Free shit was and still is boss.

What do I mean by free happiness? It’s the right to be happy regardless of anything. There doesn’t have to be a reason behind it, nothing is fixed, nothing was gained, nothing moved forward. It’s just a time when the world over decides to play uplifting music, show images of fireplaces, crank up their heaters, and spread the cheer and goodwill that I wish was more widespread.

Fuck the bullshit in your life, fuck the loneliness, the inadequacy, the hurt, the stress, all of that. I know, I know, I make it sound a lot easier than it is. The baggage that we carry around with us is hard to just shuck off. Then again, it really is as easy as just saying “Fuck it. Why care about something like that when it’s Christmas?”

It sounds like a dumb fucking reason to just stop caring about all the important worries and stress that drive us to be productive human beings, but this is the one time of the year where you’re allowed to be stupid and happy. Christmas is that time where you can drop your cynicism and allow happiness to manifest and metastasize throughout your body and soul. Because I’ve asked myself plenty, “Why give in? Why buy into the bullshit and the irrational smiles and sweetness and annoyingly catchy music?”

What if you’re alone? Then spend the season reveling in how awesome you are. What if you’re homeless? There’s plenty of shelters open, not to minimize your plight, but you can lessen it on a night like Christmas. What if you’re about to die? Then die with the happy images of Christmas lights and the soothing sounds of Nat King Cole’s “Silent Night”. What if you’re a sociopath? Then why the fuck are you reading my blog?

I’ve spent the last decade bashing on the commercialization and inauthenticity of Christmas. I’ve questioned why this can’t be year round. Then I grew the fuck up and just realized that I should take this holiday for what it is. A baseless, irrational, yet comforting feeling that I can be happy without any particular reason. It’s just Christmas.

Merry Christmas you filthy animal. (RATATATATATATAT). And a Happy New Year.

2011
12/21
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B.A. in English.

In the battle between boyish dreams and pragmatism, the age of 25 marks the line in which those boyish dreams start losing their luster and pragmatism starts to kick you in the nards with the following: late payment notices, the impotent feeling of still living at your parents’ house, reverting back to college habits you thought you left behind (sneaking out of the bill, eating dry Top Ramen, drinking Keystone Light), and that choking on the dust your friends are kicking up as they climb up their career ladders.

Yeah. I’m going through my 25 panic. Fuck you. Give me back my Keystone.

It’s a running joke that English majors are doomed to a life of compromise. Unless they were smart enough to use it as a vehicle for Pre-Law. But the budding novelists that endure rote repetition of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton, they slug it out with impossibly dense canon literature in the hopes of joining their torturers. Well, it just so happens that graduation marks the time where most English majors choose between any of these four things:

1. Become a best-selling novelist:

(Sidenote: I should apologize to everyone. I actually have no opinion towards Twilight. I’ve never read past the first 30 pages, so it’s a little unfair of me to put the sword into Bella (although at this point in my dry spell, I wouldn’t mind).)

I’ve come to respect best-selling novelists that write literary dogshit that appeals to the most base of our emotional palette. More importantly, I’ve come to respect best-selling novelists that have learned how to make their shit readable without using purple imagery and overly complex story structure.

It’s a pain in the ass whenever I hear some pretentious reader or aspiring author debunk the latest hot novel to run off the press. It’s that same comfort in being esoteric and unique that makes hipsters fucking unbearable to talk to. I might have deadened my literary palette to take only the strongest of literature, but it doesn’t mean that I can hate on Stephanie Meyers or Dan Brown because I think their writing isn’t up to my standard.

In fact, my writing isn’t up to their standard. Most of those aspiring novelists who bitch and moan about how droll Stephanie Meyers is or how Dan Brown is a hack, they’re forgetting one thing: Steph Meyers and Dan Brown figured out how to write publishable shit. With an art as subjective as writing, publishing is the closest thing to an objective standard of quality. How many fucking books have you published? That’s right, sit your ass down.

Sidenote: The last sentence was pragmatism trying to punk boyish dreams into the fetal position.

So budding English major, if you insist on going down the novelist path, I suggest you study the works of the authors your peers will sneer at. They figured out how to get paid with this next-to-useless piece of fucking paper.

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2. Compromise your talents.

“Dude. Copywriters are total sellouts.”

Whoever says this to you should get punched in the face. Preferably by you, I can’t afford to get into an assault beef at my age. That “boys will be boys” argument doesn’t work when you’re 25.

Dom DeLillo was a copywriter before he became one of our great contemporary American novelists. So you can tell Skinny Jeans McAsshole to go suck on something phallic. Like the symbols he sees everywhere.

There is no shame in compromising your talents for a career that is less lofty than your initial dream. I’m sure most of you didn’t say “I’m gonna be a copywriter” when you ticked “English” on that college application.

Well, actually, it’s probably a better idea to major in Communications, Marketing, or Advertising if you’re going to be a copywriter..

STILL. The point is this, while there’s no shame in stubbornly hanging onto your initial passion of writing prose or poetry for a living, there’s also no shame in throwing in the towel and shitting out literary genius for agencies and corporations.

In fact, if you insist on writing for a living, chances are, it will be as a copywriter, technical writer, content writer, SEO specialist, and other non-attractive sounding landing points after college forces you from its protective, self-feeding, warm womb.

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3. Fuck English.

If there’s anything I can teach post-graduates in their journey outside of college, your major will probably have very, very little to do with your eventual career.

One English major I know is now in pharmacy school, another is taking classes on HTML coding, another owns a Ben and Jerry’s franchise, and a lot more are in marketing and PR.

You’re not doomed to a life of broke artistry and Value Meal diets, you could’ve been an Asian-Am Studies major, you still have a chance to get a job somewhere. You could be a financial analyst if you so damn well please.

Besides, nobody really knows what they’re going to be doing right out of college, you end up falling into it.

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4. Stubbornly insist you’re a genius and write the next great American novel.

I used to be you. I really did. I thought I had the chops and the thoughts and the stories to craft the Ulysses of our generation. I thought I’d be ok with living destitute, broke, and surviving by working dead-end jobs, just waiting for my manuscript to get picked up by some publisher who’ll finally get my genius in crafting run-on sentences.

But when I fell into the workforce, I realized that I like money. I like being able to pay without dodging the bill. I enjoy buying rounds for my friends. I love giving my parents a piece of my check. Money, in this instance, did buy me happiness. I had been a broke bum for so long that I had forgotten how much I hated it.

So I learned that I don’t have the gumption to survive on an artist’s lifestyle. That’s fine. I also didn’t go through the life-jarring experiences that are the engine of compelling literature. The closest I got is losing a few friends when I was a teenager.

But if you can look yourself in the mirror, truly dig deep into your soul, and know for certain that the juice is worth the squeeze, then do it. If you think that you can endure the unpredictable lifestyle of a full-time novelist aiming for a Pulitzer instead of a paycheck, then God bless your soul.

Because I learned, at age 25, that I’m probably not going to do that. Let’s hope you do better than I do.

2011
12/14
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Excuse Me, Miss.

Dear Miss Acura TL Driver at Coleman and 880,

I too like to sing at the top of my lungs when I think nobody else is watching. The only difference is, I continue to sing at the top of my lungs when I see someone watching. It’s called dedication to a craft. Way to be a poser.

Still, that embarrassed look was priceless, I’m sure some dude will fall in love with it one day.

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Dear Miss Cashier at the Shell on Campbell and San Tomas Aquino,

We’ve known each other for a decade plus. You’ve seen me grow from a high school brat, to a community college nerd, to a college kid too good for his home, to the defeated post-grad that scrapes his car for cigarette change.

I am over 18, and you know this. Stop carding me.

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Dear Miss Blue Dress at Blowfish,

It’s been awhile since we’d seen each other. I remember you being very drunk, which was a shame, because you offered to give me discounts on flights to Hong Kong. I was going to follow up, but I realized that would’ve been a non-starter.

Still, thanks for thinking of me in that light.

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Dear Miss Party Girl on Facebook Feed,

Yes, I do stalk your feed, but only because you’re hot and I find it harmless. After all, if you didn’t want me to see, you wouldn’t post it in public, or better yet, you wouldn’t have friended a guy you met once at a UCLA house party and never saw again.

By the way, congratulations on your new job! I knew you’d find the time to grow up. I’m sure your boyfriend _____ _____ must be real proud of you.

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Dear Miss Great Friend at Gaam,

I wasn’t there for this, I heard this story second-hand. But after the initial disgust and laughter that your actions had brought, I’ve come to respect your commitment to friendship. Reassuring your drunk, upchucking friend by saying “Oh no, you look good too girl!” is definitely outside my friendship toolbox. Way to be there.

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Dear Miss Drunk Birthday Girl at…was it Studio 8? Motif? I don’t remember. I’m sorry,

I would’ve totally hit on you, and I enjoyed giving you my birthday present of a hi-5. Unfortunately, it was equal parts drunken impotence and equal parts your gargoyle bodyguarding friends. They really look like they can box a guy out, I can respect that. But just so you know, I would’ve totally bought you a drink with my unemployment money. And I would’ve made you laugh, because lets face it, even Vietnamese people know how ridiculous their accent sounds.

Or your friends would’ve taken me outside and broken me down for parts. But hey, what’s not done is not done.

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Dear Miss Barista at the Lawrence Starbucks,

There’s a monologue in Generation Kill where Cpl. Ray Person discusses deploying a forward Starbucks in Iraq. All there needed to be was a fruity barista, two high school girls getting fat off of sugary lattes, and some faggot writing a novel on his laptop.

Well there was a gay guy behind me, you definitely reminded me of the two high school girls getting fat off of lattes, and I’m just thankful that I forgot to bring my laptop that day.

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Dear Miss Friend of Someone’s at 330 Ritch,

I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. But if it makes you feel any better, your reaction became a legendary story of a legendary Thanksgiving weekend. My friends totally got a kick out of you.

You are definitely the 2nd most memorable strikeout in my life.

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Dear Miss Reader of Camus on the Southbound Caltrain,

I have that same book. I wanted to tell you, but then I thought of how annoyed I’d be if some random guy pointed out that fact when I’m trying to finish The Plague for the sake of saying I read The Plague.

So I didn’t.

And The Stranger was better.

–

Stolen from Milhauser.

2011
12/06
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A Requiem for a Hello.

I miss being a child.

I know you can’t tell. It’s ok, I look a lot younger than I actually am. People don’t believe me when I say that I’m 38, turning 39. In that time, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve had my entire world flipped upside down, and then bent sideways, until it has been warped and twisted into  an unrecognizable heap. When I first started out, I was just a small little droplet on the pond. I marveled at the little ripples flushing out, picturing them becoming waves that tumbled onto the beach.

Now, I am the pond. Almost everyone on earth has seen my face, on a doll, on a shirt, on a skateboard, on your girlfriend’s thong.

I just can’t look at the world the same anymore. I’ve stayed eternally young, but inside I feel so decayed. The simplicity of childhood is gone now. Back then, I was innocent, I didn’t stand for anything but the childhood innocence I was created for. I wasn’t a symbol or an icon or an allegorical piece of meat to be shucked, chopped, and seasoned to fit into some clunky, ironic metaphor.

Seriously guys, it’s not “cute” to put my face on the backside of girls panties. It implies some pedophilia.

I miss it. I miss when people saw me and saw a simple child, not a survivor of that generation. I feel like a reclaimed relic for those former little girls who have turned just as weathered and world-beaten as I have. I think I remind them of a time when they had cooties, when princesses always found a prince, and the words “fat” and “ugly” were adjectives instead of triggers of insecurity.

Back then, moms and dads walked us to school, they didn’t let us watch adult programs, they made us grow up with each other instead of raising us through a TV screen.

I miss being a child, when everything was so simple and pure. Now I’m just an ironic symbol of a lost generation, slowly losing my fame to an electric rat and a talking piece of bread. I can’t wait to disappear into the memories of those who grew up with me, when I stop being passed on to their children and forced to live another generation of this decaying world.

And seriously, stop putting me on lingerie. It’s not sexy, it’s not cute, it’s a little weird.

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Me: What should I write about?
Plawn: write in the perspective of hello kitty.
Me: challenge accepted.

2011
12/01
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Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. The moral foundation of Thanksgiving is sentimental enough for me to get in touch with my introspective, emotional, and illogical side, but it’s not so much that I feel like a pussy for doing so. Built on top of such a sturdy humanist base is a feast unlike any other, some of the best football one will ever play or watch, and an opportunity to catch up with long lost cousins, aunts, uncles, or out-of-town friends. Granted, it’s an American holiday that celebrates a hollow union between settler and Indian, but it’s not as blasphemous to minorities and Indians as say…Columbus Day. Thankfully, I’m not Native American. I’m the son of a settler who will gash his teeth into the mountainous feasts of American prosperity and excess.

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But in the spirit of my favorite holiday, I figured it’s a good opportunity to broadcast to all of you the things I am thankful for.

So here goes.

1. I am thankful that I am somewhat healthy.

Let me explain. I’m not fit, nor am I the paragon of health, nor do I even meet the average of health. My beer gut, who was aptly named Bob during my college years, has stayed with me since 19. I can’t run more than 2 miles without feeling the need to throw up. Each hangover is steadily worse than the last. If my smell doesn’t give it away, then my cough tells people that I smoke heavily. I get sick more often.

But, despite my unhealthy lifestyle that will slowly and softly kill me (like his song), I can still control my bladder, still determine when and where I take a dump, still able to run a full court game of basketball, still able breathe without difficulty, still able to eat whatever I want without an ulcer tearing at my stomach walls, still able to walk, talk, hear, see, smell, taste, and touch as well as the average person.

To top it all off, I don’t have a STD, and to the best of my knowledge, I don’t have cancer.

And before someone points out that I need to have sex in order to contract a STD…well it’s still something to be thankful for. Ass.

So I’m thankful to be just like the majority of America. Far from healthy, but just as far from being a cripple.

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2. I’m thankful for learning valuable lessons in this past year.

Seriously, every year I learn something new that helps me cope with the gritty realities of living life in a 1st world country.

- I live in a 1st world country.

Sure, I wish I had more money and more worldly significance like any other 1st world citizen. I wish that I was surviving on my own in some major city like San Fran, LA, Chicago, or New York. But the fact is, my life is automatically blessed in relation to people living in the 3rd world. All of my problems are, thankfully, 1st world problems. Trying to find a new job, concerning myself with seeing the world, stressing on how I’m going to pay a parking ticket, these are all problems that aren’t even in the same stratosphere as a person my age in…say…Beirut.

Sidenote: I know I’m inferring from an infuriatingly true argument quoted by Republicans and Wall Street financiers to debase the legitimacy of the Occupy movement. My feelings about the 1% stay the same. Just because you worked/lucked your way into your affluent and powerful position, it doesn’t give you the right to play financial Monopoly with our country’s economy. I know it doesn’t apply to all workers in the finance industry, but it sure as hell applies to some motherfuckers still runnin’ shit.

And while the American Dream might seem like a disillusion to most people, it still sort of applies. The remaining slices of pie will only go to those who are willing to work their asses off. And that’s a 1st world benefit.

- You don’t always get what you want.

I know some friends will disagree with me on this one. But sometimes, no matter how hard you work, no matter how much effort you put into getting something, you just won’t get it. Luck, fortune, and timing have as much to do with achievement as sweat, effort, and discipline.

I learned in the past year that I won’t always get what I want. I might not get that perfect job, woo that perfect girl, find that perfect hot wing place, live that perfect moment, or write that perfect piece. We all want perfection, very rarely do we achieve something close to it.

But I’ve learned that if I left everything on the floor trying, then that’s enough. Smile at it and move the fuck on with my life. It’s not a tragedy when I don’t hit perfection, nobody else will anyway. Everyone else makes do.

- Adapt or die.

I thought that this rough-edged hunk of sexy aspiring wordsmith was enough to make it in this not-so-tough, not-so-bad world of ours. Obviously, that was a retarded notion that life killed while smiling.

This world is in a state of flux. People calling the “Great Recession” a euphemism for depression, or bitching about globalization, or unable to accept that old blueprints for success have just crossed the threshold of outdated, they will be the ones most likely to be left behind.

If you don’t adapt, then have fun scamming our public coffers for government benefits while bitching about a broken system.

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3. I’m thankful for being an idiot.

More specifically, I’m thankful that I blew all my savings and maxed out my credit card on all types of travel this year.

Money will come and go, and I’m confident and talented enough to snatch some type of job that will let me coast to that 70k a year lifestyle that I can be content with.

But traveling to Seattle, Chicago, New York, LA, and Korea this year gave me so much in terms of life experience, assorted lessons, and many moments when I found a satisfaction and contentment that I could not get living at home. A lot of it was due to the euphoria of reconnecting with old friends and making new ones, and a lot of it was due to satisfying that old fantasy of getting lost in a city by yourself. People find themselves when they’re somewhere else.

Before this year, I didn’t appreciate America. The combination of seeing its beautiful cities and returning to my parents’ old country made me appreciate America that much more.

I’m not all “FUCK YEAH” about America like some people, but I just appreciate knowing that I was brought up here and not anywhere else.

Fun Fact: I learned that I was very close to growing up in Brazil. Apparently San Jose and Brazil were the two places my parents were thinking of moving to after they had my sister.

The next step is to stop traveling, but to start living. It doesn’t necessarily have to be far. It just has to be on my own. At this point, I’m just as tired of writing about it as you probably are of reading about it.

Of course, if the world does end in 2012, then I’ll be happy that I at least got to see New York and my family in Korea before I died.

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4. I’m thankful for…

Unemployment insurance.
La Victoria’s orange sauce.
Korean food.
J. Cole’s Sideline Story.
The Wu-Tang Clan.
The 49ers being 9-1 (so far).
Arsenal FC finally learning not to suck.
My new jacket.
My new jeans.
My $6.95 black beanie from H&M.
The predictability of Bay Area traffic.
Jameson Whiskey.
Boddington’s Pub Ale.
Fried chicken.
The few hot girls in San Francisco.
The many hot girls in Los Angeles.
Soldiers coming back safely from war.
My parents for not kicking me out.
My sister and her boyfriend for letting me crash at their house.
My cousins in Korea for being welcoming and friendly.
My cousins in America for being them. (Despite the damage and facepalming it causes.)
All my friends. The ones here, the ones elsewhere, and the ones I’ve just made.
Making it through another year, relatively unscathed.

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And that’s about it. Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving everyone.

2011
11/23
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